


Our Limits

by Calais_Reno



Series: Fin de Siècle [20]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Epilogue, Happy Ending, M/M, New Year's Eve, POV John Watson, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:02:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22959127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: My beautiful boy is dozing in his chair right now, his long legs tucked up under him. He has promised to greet the new century with me, to toast the future with a kiss and a glass of wine. Maybe we will dance around our sitting room, ridiculous in our dressing gowns. For now, I will let him sleep, whilst I write up my memoir of the year.This is (the final) part of a Victorian AU. It takes place eighteen months after Watson was rescued and reunited with Holmes, on the eve of the new century.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Fin de Siècle [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1551937
Comments: 47
Kudos: 70





	Our Limits

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Teddy (I_am_lampy)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_am_lampy/gifts).



Today is the last day of the nineteenth century. In a few short hours, we will be ringing in 1901.

It has been almost twenty years since I stood in the lab at St Barts, listening to a young man excitedly explain the blood test he had just invented, promising that it would change the science of detecting crimes. He has told me since how nervous he felt that day, flustered by my presence and unable to interpret my reactions.

 _I was ridiculous,_ he said, _babbling and flapping like some ungainly bird._

I don’t remember it exactly like that. I remember thinking, _here is an extraordinary mind._ He was not ungainly, but filled with a type of energy I had never seen. A beautiful creature, I thought, beautiful and brilliant. I could not take my eyes off of him.

 _Beautiful?_ He laughed when I told him this much later. He has never seen himself as others do. _You were so handsome, John— I could not breathe. When I saw you standing there, something whispered to me that if I did not run away at once, I would be irrevocably changed._

And so we both were. Those were sweet, anxious days, indulging our love and fearing that we might be exposed. He took me, in my weakest and most desperate hour, and gave me a reason to live. I wanted nothing more than to run after him, gun in my pocket, into the darkest streets. He was mine, and I would always protect him.

 _My conductor of light,_ he called me. I was content to reflect his brilliance.

My beautiful boy is dozing in his chair right now, his long legs tucked up under him. He has promised to greet the new century with me, to toast the future with a kiss and a glass of wine. Maybe we will dance around our sitting room, ridiculous in our dressing gowns. For now, I will let him sleep, whilst I write up my memoir of the year.

In the coming year we will celebrate another anniversary, one more solemn than our first meeting. On the fourth of May, it will be ten years since Reichenbach, the event that more than any other has shaped these last years. Holmes’ exile, my own imprisonment, our long separation followed that day when I stood on a path above the falls, calling his name, almost dead with fear and sorrow.

The past year, however, has restored much to us, rewarding us for our troubles.

It has been eighteen months since I nearly lost my life. I will never forget the days I spent imprisoned in a basement, or the terrible hours when I was trapped in a well. I remember my rescue only in part, for I was so weak and ill by then that I was barely conscious. I recall my relief when I opened my eyes and saw Holmes looking at me with fear and panic, when I felt his hands on my face and heard him whisper my name and beg me not to be dead.

Afterwards he confessed that the days when I was gone were the worst of his life. He said that he often thought of how I had grieved, believing him dead, and prayed that he would have the opportunity to once more beg my forgiveness for his long absence.

It was some weeks before I was strong enough to travel back to London. Mary remained with us in Yorkshire for a few days; we stayed in Harrogate with friends of hers. I was told that she had engineered my rescue, locating me through a network of servants, and confronted Sebastian Moran himself with a revolver in her hand aimed at his head. I’m not sure either Holmes or I knew Mary Morstan as well as we had thought. I can never thank her enough for what she did.

Holmes stayed at my side, undeterred by the possibility that he would be arrested for Moriarty’s murder. That was not likely to happen, though at the time we did not know what was transpiring in London, where thousands of handbills bearing my picture were distributed, asking, _where is John Watson?_

When we finally heard from Joe Lestrade, he told us that on the day of my rescue, a spontaneous march to the Houses of Parliament took place. The streets of Westminster were so crowded that no carriages could get through, and the chanting and cheering could be heard a mile away, in Hyde Park. The police stopped marchers, trying to hold the mob back, and every man or woman of whom they demanded, _What is your name?_ responded, _My name is John Watson_.

Sebastian Moran was taken away in darbies from the house where he had imprisoned me. Some weeks later, he was sent to prison for operating what amounted to a slavery syndicate. I thought he might escape conviction, with his many friends in power, but so outraged was the public when the story of my arrest and internment came out, no judge could have let him off with less than ten years. Ironically, he now sits in Pentonville, where I spent two years.

The Poor Law is currently under consideration, being re-written for a new age, in part because of articles I wrote for the Dispatch. The workhouses are once more a voluntary form of assistance, where no one is sent against their will. A better understanding of and sympathy for the poor is developing, I think, but it will be years before we outgrow some of the institutions that have contributed to their misery. For now, I will be happy to see better nutrition in the workhouses and more of an effort to rehabilitate the indigent unemployed.

Another law, the Labouchere Amendment, has fallen into a kind of limbo. Due to some legal challenges, judges are now reluctant to convict in cases where there is no evidence of public acts of indecency. Since the original intent of the law was to target prostitution, especially the forcing of young girls into that terrible trade, the focus has been shifted to that purpose. The law is no longer used to entrap political opponents, no longer an instrument of blackmail, and the likelihood that men like Holmes and I would be convicted today is slim. I am afraid, though, that it will be many years before a love like ours is accepted by society. Still, we live in relative (and discreet) freedom, no longer fearing arrest or disgrace.

Moran’s cronies are mostly out of office now. A few retired, and others voluntarily stepped down. The general tenor of discussion in Parliament is far different from what it was; the pendulum has begun to swing in the other direction.

After our return to London, we were both exhausted and wanted nothing more than to hole up in our cramped rooms on Seymour Street and never leave. Unfortunately, we needed to eat, and as we were exceedingly poor, our first imperative was to find employment. Once my convalescence was over, I was able to continue my work at the Dispatch, and Holmes suddenly began to acquire clients, his reputation resurrected. It was gratifying to see him busy once more, doing what he loves. My own work allows me to accompany him most of the time.

I am working towards being reinstated as a physician, but have begun to pen more than editorials, and make a small income doing so. The Strand magazine contacted me through Mr Quick and asked for some new stories. I have obliged with a few old cases, but am now thinking that I will try something more fantastic, further from real life (which has, for too long, been altogether too real). Maybe something with dinosaurs*.

Mary wrote to me soon after we went back to work, asking if she and Rose could visit. I fretted about our accommodations; we could still afford only a small set of rooms with a single gas burner for cooking. She had bought a house, though, in Marylebone, and invited us to stay there. I was shocked to discover that the building was our old diggings at 221B Baker Street.

She met us at the door, smiling. “I cannot imagine the two of you anywhere else,” she said, inviting us inside. I felt my throat grow tight with tears when I walked up the seventeen steps to our old rooms. The decor had altered over the past ten years, but the rooms were much as they were when Holmes and I last lived there.

She has a mathematical mind, and has done very well with her investments. In fact, a remarkable offer had come her way, which she shared with us.

Through the Royal Observatory, she had obtained an invitation to study in the United States, at Harvard University. This study was to be for a period of two years, beginning in the fall of 1900. Feeling reluctant to separate me from my daughter after so much time, and not wanting to uproot Rose from her school, she asked if Holmes and I would be willing to live at Baker Street during her absence. Rose was boarding in Walsall, where Mary had taught, but would come home to us on holidays. We were, of course, overjoyed to move back into our old rooms, and having Rosie with us, even part-time, was more than I could have hoped for.

My re-introduction to my daughter caused me great anxiety. I was not sure what she understood, what she would think of my troubles. There are not many young ladies of that age, I think, who would admit to having a father like me. She could not fail to be embarrassed by me.

Mary once more made things right. “She’s an intelligent girl, and a sturdy one. When she was old enough, I told her that you were in prison because of an unjust law. As she grew older, I filled in some details so she would be prepared to deal with any girls who might decide to tease her. She is not a dainty thing, John, and I am a teacher of science. Now that she is old enough, I have been honest with her about men and women and how the human species reproduces.”

When I saw her, I could not speak. She was small in stature, like me, with hair as blond as Mary’s, and a smile that reminded me of my brother Harry. At thirteen, she was no longer a little girl, but a young lady.

Her eyes filled with tears, but she smiled. “Daddy,” she said, coming to give me a kiss and a hug. “I missed you so much.”

She was six when Mary left, taking her away. “You remember me?”

“You’re my father,” she said, giving me a knowing look that reminded me of Mary. “It would be impossible to forget you.” She turned to Holmes then. “You’re my Papa. I still have the doll you gave me.”

“But you don’t play with dollies now, do you?” he asked, eyes twinkling.

“No, I don’t. I’m going to be a scientist.”

I watched in wonder as she led him to the settee and invited him to sit beside her. “You studied chemistry at Cambridge,” she said. “I understand that there is a college there that admits women, but no colleges give degrees to us. This seems discriminatory.”

“The University of London does,” he replied, “though I’m not sure in what disciplines.”

“I might become a doctor, like my father. I have heard that there are medical schools where women can earn degrees.” She shook her blond head, making her plaits bounce. “We’re nearly in a new century, and women are still treated like inferiors. For heaven’s sake, you would think—“

“Rose, watch your language,” Mary warned.

“Yes, mother. Though I’m sure that if I were a boy, no one would be shocked to hear me use such language.” She gave me an arch look. “I’m sure my father doesn’t mind.”

“Your father,” said Holmes with diplomacy, “like your mother, understands the purpose of social niceties.” He winked at me.

My daughter came and put her arms around me. I stroked the fair hair, my voice having deserted me once again.

“I think I shall like living with you and Papa.”

In her letters, Mary sounds content. She is working as a computer, she says, doing the necessary calculations for the scientific observations the astronomers there make, while learning about their work. She is fulfilling an old dream, she says, one she had never mentioned to me because it seemed like a foolish self-indulgence. I am proud and happy to be able to help her achieve this.

Rose has now lived with us at Baker Street for several months, though most of that time she has been at school. When home, she sleeps in my old room upstairs. She calls Sherlock _Papa_ , as she did many years ago, and though she sometimes calls me _Father_ (mostly when she is displeased with me), she still enjoys sitting next to me and hearing me read aloud. My army days interest her, and she often asks about India and Afghanistan.She has a mind that delights in many things. Currently, she is thinking that she might like to be an explorer, and is trying to convince Holmes that we should take her to Darkest Africa. Once she’s seen the world, she assures us that she will become a world-famous scientist. 

We were together for Christmas, and she is now spending New Years with the Forresters, whose youngest daughter is a great friend of hers and a classmate at Walsall.

Tomorrow we will visit Simon and his family, Joe and his father, and take a walk through the streets of twentieth century London. It won’t look so different, but we will look for the beginnings of change.

Downstairs, I can hear our Lizzie and her girlfriends giggling as they bundle up to go outside into the snow and hear the bells peal at midnight. She and another girl now occupy the rooms where Mrs Hudson used to live, and take care of our meals and laundry. She orders our small band of Irregulars around as if this were a great manor house and they her staff. Under the influence of our Rose, though, I am not sure she will be content to run our house for long. She has read all of my stories, and thinks that writing might be a good occupation for a woman.

She calls up the stairs now. “We’re going out, Doctor Watson, Mr Holmes!” The door slams and their excited laughter is muffled.

Holmes has opened his eyes now and is smiling at me. He is used to seeing me toil at this little desk where I wrote my first story, the one about an abandoned house where a murdered man was found. I remember his words to me, _There's the scarlet thread of murder running through the colourless skein of life, and our duty is to unravel it, and isolate it, and expose every inch of it._

This is what our life has been, solving crime and pursuing evil. All those threads have run through the years, creating a tapestry of many colours. Parts of that fabric are dark, intersected with shocking, bright strands of scarlet, and some are drab grey, long expanses where we knew sorrow and despair.

This picture is not complete yet, and I think the most beautiful parts will be woven in the coming years. We will enjoy our Rose, and she will lead us on adventures, maybe even as far as Africa. We might visit Mary in America, and maybe go out west. We will certainly continue our investigative work until we decide we are ready to retire. Then we will find a cosy house, maybe in Sussex. Holmes talks of beekeeping, and I have stories yet to write. The colours will be more muted by then, but no less beautiful.

He looks at me now with such love, and I do not need to ask what he is thinking. I understand all his limits now, as he knows mine. We are not the young men who swore not to be parted, nor the ones who went off to Switzerland, hoping we had beaten Moriarty. We had to be wounded, exiled, imprisoned, separated, and finally reunited before we could understand what Providence has given us. No lover can know how his vow will be tested when he first makes it. We had survived, though, and are stronger for what we’ve lived through.

He stands, holding out his hand to me. Wordlessly we embrace, swaying to unheard music as the bells begin to toll. I lean my ear against his chest, hearing his faithful heart beating. We are alive, and I feel no less love for him than I did on the night we first found one another, nor on any of the nights I spent alone, thinking I had lost my heart. I think of the night we stood on Old Street, looking up at the stars, two men on a small planet revolving in a vast universe. _The world is spinning faster,_ Holmes had said. And so it is.

The bells have reached their peak when he brings our mouths together. We kiss and the bells toll and people are singing outside and the earth spins and it’s a new century. And we are together.

“Happy New Year, John,” he says.

“Happy New Year, love.”

**Author's Note:**

> *One of Arthur Conan Doyle’s best-known works outside of his Sherlock Holmes stories is The Lost World, about the discovery of prehistoric creatures in the Amazon basin.  
> AU history note: The Labouchere Amendment was not actually repealed until 1956. Alan Turing, among others, was prosecuted under this act; his sentence and subsequent disgrace may have led to his suicide. Male homosexual activity was not decriminalised until 1967. 
> 
> Liner Notes:  
> The idea for this series came to me a couple years ago.
> 
> I had written a short story, “The New Gardener,” whose premise was that Holmes did not return, there was no Empty House or return to 221B, no victory over Moriarty. That story depressed me so much that I couldn’t bear to look at it for months. (Soon I’ll post it here, now that I’ve exorcised that demon by writing this series). 
> 
> When I finally opened that file again, I decided to take a different approach, to bring Holmes back to Watson, but years later, after Watson had suffered the consequences of being his friend, colleague, and lover. 
> 
> I went through many versions of that novel-length story, always getting bogged down at the same place. Frustrated, I had a friend (the awesome I_am_Lampy) read the beginning. Her feedback opened my eyes to the problem: I had begun the story at the wrong place. Too much backstory was weighing it down. 
> 
> She has good writing instincts. This time, I began my story at the beginning, where our heroes meet, and progressed through what would lead up to Reichenbach. Now that the story had a firmer base, I was able to write the post-Reichenbach parts without losing momentum. Thank you, Teddy!
> 
> The result is for you to judge. I have loved sharing this with you. Thank you, loyal readers and commenters! 
> 
> PS: My next story will be much fluffier.


End file.
